THE PUNISHER: A CROSS TO BEAR
by BLAKKSTONE
Summary: Frank Castle moves away from his usual targets and hunting grounds to hunt down ultra-violent White Supremacists.
1. Chapter 1

**THE PUNISHER: A CROSS TO BEAR **

**Some notes before you read on:**

**DISCLAIMER: The Punisher and associated characters belong to Marvel/Disney.**

**NOTES: This takes place in a universe not unlike that of Punisher MAX. No superheroes. No supertech.**

**WARNING: This story is rated M. It contains violence and explicit language. Among the language, there are some very nasty, hateful words, slurs, spoken by the White Supremacist characters. If those words hurt you, even in a work of fiction, stay away. I wish no harm to anyone.**

**********************************************************************************************Crystal Falls, North Carolina**

**Night Time**

Frank Castle was standing over graves. He'd done this before. Standing over the graves of his family. Ever since that day in Central Park over 40 years before. That day when his world fell apart as he watched bullets tear through his wife and children.

Maria. Lisa. Junior.

It seemed like a lifetime ago. But he dreamed about them every night. In some dreams, they survived and thrived. In others, they blamed him for failing them.

In reality, they were dead, killed by mobsters in a turf war.

Since then, after his tours of Duty in Vietnam, he'd become the Punisher using his considerable skills to end the lives of vicious predators who killed and maimed the innocent.

Frank Castle was old. Seventy. A senior citizen. Whenever he had doubts, whenever he got tired, something happened. A new target. A new mission. Someone who needed to be Punished. Doubts and fatigue were washed away in blood and war.

It was why he was standing over a grave. A family grave. But not the Castle family. Not this time.

Loretta and Ezekiel Jones.

Ezekiel. Zeke. Back in the Corps, ages ago, Zeke ''Shadow'' Jones was a damn fine Marine. A big guy. As big as Castle. Hard worker. Disciplined. He could creep up unnoticed on anyone and slice their throats. An unlikely friend. Black guy from North Carolina and an Italian from Brooklyn.

After the war, Zeke went home. Met Loretta. They had one child. A boy. Castle couldn't remember the son's name. He joined the service as well. In the Army. His old man must have busted his balls. Interservice rivalry and all that.

A peaceful life. Zeke opened up a small business. Things were going well.

Until a month ago. When a church arson killed 140 people. No survivors. The Jones family, Zeke, Loretta and several relatives, along with many others.

It was very clearly arson. But no suspects had been found. Castle used his contacts in the FBI and the ATF. There was nothing. No information. No suspects. No evidence. No witnesses. There was no investigation by local authorities.

The incident didn't even make the news. It was like it never happened. It was a small miracle Castle learned about the fire. One of his former comrades, a member of the Justice Department, told Castle about it. Another one was from the NSA. Both these men knew Zeke as well.

A flash on a satellite picture. It was how Castle's NSA contact found out. There was a church and then, there was none. Nothing but ashes. No chatter. No videos on the Internet. No pictures. No messages on social media.

Over a hundred people die in a fire on American soil. Not one mention in the news media.

His Justice and NSA contacts met with Castle with printed pictures of the church fire and pixelated people standing around the church. Pointy headed silhouettes.

Twenty fours later, the pictures were gone from the system. Maybe it was a technical glitch. Or maybe someone ordered them to be destroyed.

Castle's contacts were certain that a white supremacist group that was behind that church incident. There were dozens of members of offshoots from the Klan in the area. Nobody understood the media blackout. Nothing seemed to make it out of Crystal Falls.

The FBI and ATF could do nothing. Not legally. If there was someone powerful enough to have data removed from federal agencies, they didn't know who to trust inside the system. Their hands were tied.

The Punisher could do something.

Organized crimes and gangs kept Castle busy enough. This time, the White Supremacists caught his attention.

The Punisher was about to give these fucks a taste of their own medicine.

For Zeke and his family. And all of the others. But first, he needed intel.

**Billy Bob's Beer and Billiards**

**8:23 pm**

Frank Castle was in a dive bar. He looked the part. Jeans, denim jacket, baseball hat. He'd let his beard grow out some.

He ordered a light beer. He needed to blend in. He also needed to keep his head clear. He sat at the bar.

This seemed like the kind of bar that could give Castle a feel of the town. Drunken tough guys talking about their day. Shooting the shit about sports, complaining about their bosses. Talking politics. He heard people throw ethnic slurs in their conversations. He was paying close attention.

Castle took a swig from his beer. As he was setting the bottle down, he felt the air change. Conversations stopped. The music stopped. He turned around and saw.

A tall Black man. Muscular. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Clean shaven. Hair cut short, military style. Hard features. It was like a looking at a ghost. It had to be Zeke's son.

The man stood there. No fear. Castle caught the younger man's eyes. Cold. Focused. Controlled rage. He was his father's son.

This town had a border. Invisible but clear. There was the White side and the Black side. Zeke's son was in the wrong part of town. Castle was packing light, but he was packing. He had a .45 under his jacket. A Ka-Bar behind his back. A short barreled .357 against his ankle. A telescopic baton. He wasn't going to let Zeke's son get lynched.

''The church arson!'' Zeke's son said. ''Who did it and where do I find them?''

Zeke's son spoke again: ''I'm not armed. I just want information!''

Men were getting up and were starting to circle the kid. Kid was a relative word, he was around 35 years old. Then it started. Castle heard:

''You're lost, boy!''

''We're gonna hang you from a tree, you goddamn porch monkey!''

''You're fucked, nigger!''

''Get that fuckin' nigger!'' Someone yelled.

Before any of the roughnecks could move, Zeke's kid did. Fast. He moved backwards and smashed two noses with his elbows. He kicked another one over the knee. There was an ugly breaking noise and that one went down.

The kid moved his hands. More screams. Blood. And two men went down, eyes gouged out.

More screams. A broken arm and one assailant was in the air and crashed into two more.

Two throat punches. Two more fell.

An elbow uppercut. That one's head snapped back and he also collapsed.

Another one of the rednecks crashed into a table.

Someone was closing in from behind the kid with a chair. Castle made a line for him. Right hand cross on the temple.

''What the fuck-'' Another one said, turning towards Castle. Castle kicked him in the groin with his steel toe work boot. His baton was already in his left hand. He smashed it again another patron's nose. And he bashed another one on top of the head with it. And another on the knee. They all went down.

He saw more men coming in, pulling out knives.

_Fuck this_.

Castle filled his hand with his .45 and shot three men in the kneecaps.

He saw the bartender pull out a pump action 12 gauge from behind the bar. Castle fired a .45 in his shoulder. Castle put away his baton, went over to the bar and grabbed the shotgun.

''Kid!'' He said, tossing the shotgun and Zeke's boy caught it and aimed it at the remainder of the patrons.

''We're gonna find you, boy,'' One of them said.

''You're gonna fry like the other niggers!''

''You too, nigger lover!''

''Fuckin' traitor!''

''We're gonna fuckin' get the both of you!''

Castle had enough of them. He went into his pocket and tossed a piece of paper on the floor. And said.

''Let's go, kid.''

Then went to Castle's van. The Punisher went behind the wheel, Zeke's son went to the passenger seat and they drove off.

Seconds later, in the truck:

''Who are you? Why are you helping me?'' Zeke's son asked.

''I served with your old man in Nam.''

The younger man was quiet for a second and then: ''You came to pay respects?''

''No. I came to kill the men who murdered your family.''

The man looked over. His father's son. Stoic. Never raising his voice. Hardly broke a sweat.

''What's your name?'' The younger man asked.

''Frank Castle.''

''The Punisher. Of course. Makes sense now.''

''You?''

''Luther. Luther Jones.''


	2. Chapter 2

**A farm house, on the outskirts of Crystal Falls**

**That evening**

A hundred men in white robes and pointed white hoods were standing. Another man was on a stage. He was speaking.

''We are on the edge of extinction. The savages are at our door, threatening our way of life. Our culture. Our very existence. They call us violent! Racist! Xenophobic! Homophobic! They say we are full of hate! We do not hate! We love! We love our heritage! Our race! Our beliefs! All we want is to do is ensure our survival!''

The man paused as he received cheers and applause. He put his hands up. The audience went quiet.

''The…African-Americans have poisoned the minds of young whites with their music and their slang! They have contaminated our youth with their propaganda! They are surfing on the wave of white guilt and media manipulation, all this with the support of their Jewish masters! Of course!''

The crowd reacted and when there was silence, the man went on.

''The so-called migrant crisis! They break our country's laws to invade us! They want to impose their laws, the Islamic laws! And soon, we will have 9/11 every other week, except during Ramadan, of course. We might catch a break when they fast!''

The crowd laughed.

''And then, we have our Southern Borders! The Mexicans get over here and create turmoil in our streets, with their gangs and their drugs! They create turmoil in our economy! They are willing to take lesser pay and thus, they are taking jobs from honest, law abiding, hard working Americans! Real American men who are losing their homes, their business because of the Mexican invasion!''

More cheers.

''And what of this…gender-fluid…non-binary fad that is systematically corrupting our young people! Gays and lesbian rights were only the beginning! What of trans rights! They are threatening our way of life, our children and our grammar! What pronouns are we supposed to use with these people? He? She? They? It! Bad enough we have ethnic mixing and the soiling of our genetic pool, now we have people not even knowing if they are men or women?''

There was laughter.

''You know, they say that many of that so-called community commit suicide! Well, let them, with a thank you note! Thank you for being willing to do your part to maintain our purity!''

More scoffs and laughs.

''You see, my friends, it is we who are under constant attack! By the Jewish controlled media, by the subhuman minorities, by the sexual freaks and perverted degenerates that are a true danger for our very lives! And we must fight back! If that means unleashing the cleansing fire of our Lord, so be it!''

Roaring applause and cheers.

''Let us watch, once again, the Lord's work we've done…Together!''

The lights went out and there was a picture projected on a large screen.

A church appeared on a screen. Then, hooded Klansmen appeared in the frame. They surrounded the church. Each man had a sports bag. Each man set his bag on the ground. They opened their bags. They pulled out bottles with rags stuck in the bottle's necks. They lit the rags with lighters and threw the bottles through the church's windows. Meanwhile, other men nailed the church doors shut with two by fours.

The inside of the church started. The crowd was quiet.

On screen, other men came to take the place of those had thrown the firebombs. There was sound. The screams of the people trapped inside could be heard. These other men had weapons. Shotguns, AR-15s, hunting rifles. And they started firing inside.

All of the men in the farmhouse cheered when the gunshots started.

More firebombs. More gunfire. More cheers. Until the church in the screen was nothing but charred remains.

The crown roared with applause and chants of ''White Power''.

The man raised his hands, took in some more of the crowds reactions and then, went behind the curtain and took off his ceremonial hood. He was a tall white man, in his 40s, with grey hair and blue eyes, a strong chin.

Michael Whittings. Head of the Knights Of Purity Of North Carolina. One of the strongest white supremacist groups in the United States. A veteran. A prominent local business man.

Member of the Knights since he was old enough to shave. Like his Daddy and his Daddy's Daddy. And his sons, when they would be old enough.

His head of security, a big, blonde man with a crew cut in his early 30s, Clive Lowell, came to him.

''Sir, I have some disturbing news,'' Lowell said.

''Go ahead, son,'' Whittings said.

''Some kind of incident at Bill's,'' Lowell went on, ''some nigger walked in and caused trouble. Looking for those who burned the church.''

''Really, now?''

''Yes, sir!''

''I trusted he received the proper welcome!''

''No sir, he viciously beat several patrons and was helped by a white man!''

Whittings froze. ''A white man helped the nigger?''

''That is what I have been told, sir.''

''Well, that just makes me sick.''

''And something weird, sir.''

''Weird how, son?''

''The White man left coordinates.''

''Come again?''

''He tossed out a piece of paper with coordinates on them.''

''He…told us where to find him?''

''Seems that way, sir.''

''These two men, how well did they do in the fight?''

''They took down over a dozen men, sir. The White man shot a few rounds and managed to kill no one. Not even a stray bullet.''

''All right, these are skilled men. Trained. Not to be underestimated.''

''What do we do, sir?''

''One of our great American values is family. I'm gonna reach out to family. Let's go the office.''

Later, they went to a closed office further in the farmhouse. He took a phone, a landline with a special scrambler. A man answered after four rings. ''Hello.''

''It's me, brother of mine.''

''I figured as much. Nobody else uses this line.''

''I have a problem. One that requires…specialists.''

''I'll send you someone tomorrow morning.''

''That's perfect. Thanks.''

''That what's family's for.''

''I appreciate it.''

''Call me when the specialist shows up.''

''Will do.''

Whittings hung up. And then, he said to his bodyguard.

''We're gonna have some VIP guest tomorrow, Mister Lowell. They're gonna help us with our problem.''

''Couldn't we handle this ourselves?''

''These two men are obviously dangerous. It would be a mistake to underestimate them.''

''But…''

''I know, I know, son. You were looking forward to get that nigger bastard. But business is business. That coon and his race traitor friend are real threats and must be removed. We'll have our fun another time.''

''I mean, the church was already a couple weeks ago. I'm itchin' for more, sir…''

''I know you're hungry for more action, but this isn't like the good old days. Even with our allies, we have to be patient. And careful. We have to…''

''Look at the big picture, I know, sir.''

''Attaboy. Why don't you watch your DVD of _Birth Of A Nation_ again. That movie masterpiece celebrating the glory of the Klan always cheers you up!''

''Good idea, sir! Thanks for the advice.''

''Go on home, now, son. Big day tomorrow.''

''Yes, sir!''

Lowell left.

Whittings smiled. He was satisfied with himself. Soon, he would be rid of a pesky little problem. Those two men would die. And he could move on as planned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Abandoned Garage**

**A few miles outside of Crystal Falls**

Frank Castle and Luther Jones were getting ready for war.

"Sorry,'' Jones said.

''For what?'' Castle said.

''You had a good plan. Watch. Observe. Infiltrate,'' Jones said, ''I ruined it.''

''Having them come after us works too,'' Castle said, ''It was my plan B. It's why I tossed the coordinates to this place.''

''You were ready for things to go as they did?''

''I've been doing this a long time, kid.''

''Yeah,'' Jones said.

There was silence for a while. Castle had brought weapons. Many weapons. LAW rockets, an MM-1 40 mil grenade launcher, M4s with 90 round drums and more. The van has several modifications which made it combat ready. Both men were prepping weapons. Castle was watching Luther. Kid knew how to handle ordnance.

''They won,'' Jones said.

Castle said nothing.

''There's always been tension around here,'' Jones said, ''Assaults. Vandalism. In recent years, it escalated. Fires. Murders. No police would ever show. No fire department. People from my side of town were moving out. I didn't see any of it. People told me this afterwards. Spent my life in the service. Only stopped here on occasion to see my folks. They were keeping this from me. Then, people began to leave. Dealing with racists was one thing. Racists who were getting away with murder on a weekly basis was too much. The Knights have powerful allies.''

Castle kept listening.

''People tried. They tried talking to the press. Those people disappeared along with which ever reporter they'd talked to. It was a nightmare. Like we were in the 1940s or 50s.''

A short silence.

''No internet. No cell phones here. A dead zone. Land lines only. Radio, '' Jones said.

Another pause. Jones' voice revealed no emotion. He went on:

''I was away when the church fire happened. Classified mission overseas. When I got here, I talked to whoever was left in my side of town. They were sure it was the Knights. More people left. Families. They couldn't stay here any longer. Everyone was scared. Some were angry. The Knights had weapons and connections. I told the people to leave. But that I would stay. I had nothing to lose.''

Another quiet moment.

''My anger boiled over,'' Jones said, ''And I went to that bar. You know the rest.''

Castle said: ''When I gave you the shotgun, you didn't start blasting. Why?''

Jones paused. And said:

''Had no reason to think that those guys were members of the Knights. They probably knew who was. I wasn't gonna kill them for that.''

Castle nodded. It was why he hadn't killed anyone himself. Those men were assholes. But that didn't make them murderers.

''Haven't changed your mind?'' Castle asked.

''I wanna kill those who burned that church.''

''You know the price you have to pay for that,'' Castle said, ''No turning back.''

''Been around the world, waging wars. I had one going on right here. I didn't realize it. Fighting is all I've ever been good at. And I wasn't there to do it for my family.''

There was a silence. And then, Jones went on.

''You talk about cost. I have nothing left to live for except this upcoming war.''

Castle looked at Luther. He no longer saw Zeke. He saw himself.

Castle said, ''Let's prepare.''

**The following morning**

**Whittings' farmhouse outside of Crystal Falls**

A convoy of black SUVS showed up. Four of them. Michael Whittings was there to greet him along with Lowell, his security chief.

When Whitting saw the men step out of their trucks, he knew. They were serious business. Merciless contractors used to wetwork in the shadows. The last resort guys that allowed governments to have plausible deniability.

The one that seemed like their leader was a tall, slender white man. Brownish hair and beard. Sunglasses. Dressed with a polo shirt and cargo pants, like the rest of his team. All white men. Good.

''Mister Whittings, I'm Dan Blanchard,'' the man said, extending his hand. Whittings shook it.

''Pleased to meet you, this is Clive Lowell, he handles my security.''

They all shook hands. Minutes later, Blanchard, Lowell and Whittings went to a briefing room. Blanchard noticed the computers in the room.

''This tech is from the 80s and 90s'', Blanchard said.

''Yes,'' Whittings said, ''This is a cellular dead zone. Same for the Internet. Our set up is hack proof.

''I get it. Impressive,'' Blanchard said.

''Why, thank you kindly. Same could be said of you. You come highly recommended, Mister Blanchard,'' Whittings said.

''We aim to please,'' Blanchard said, ''I understand you have a problem that needs handling.''

''Why, yes. Mister Lowell seems to think I may have called an airstrike to kill a mountain lion, but I have learned never to underestimate the enemy. Even if one of them's a nigger.''

''Wise. What are we talkin' about here?''

Whittings told them. The bar brawl and the skill in which two men had neutralized a bar full of men.

And the fact that the white one left coordinates.

''I have to say,'' Blanchard said, ''This is highly unusual. Men don't usually invite others to come kill them unless they think they can handle what will be thrown at them.''

''My thoughts exactly.''

''Who are they?''

''The jungle bunny is out for revenge, that much is obvious. The white one. I don't know. He can't be from around here.''

''You don't think he's a federal agent or something?''

''That's impossible.''

''I mean no disrespect, but how can you be so sure?''

''Fair question. But consider who hired you. Nothing is a hundred percent, but if the feds had any idea about anything going on here, we'd be looking at a sequel to Waco.''

''True enough. But this guy knows something.''

''There is a slight chance that he does. He's here on his own, with the nigger. He has no one he can turn to because he's probably figured out what we know. He doesn't know who he can trust with what he thinks he knows. So he's here, snooping around. He probably hadn't planned on that bar brawl and his intelligence gathering mission is screwed up.''

''You wanna know who they are? What we're dealing with?'' Blanchard said.

''Yes. And who they talked to,'' Whittings said, ''Bring them back for a little…enhanced interrogation. For the White man, at least.''

''I want some quality time with the nigger,'' Lowell said, ''A couple friends of mine lost their eye when they fought him.''

''I understand that,'' Blanchard said, ''Any idea what these coordinates represent?''

''An abandoned garage, a few miles south of here,'' Whittings said.

Blanchard nodded, ''If you can show us where that is on a map, we'll check out the terrain and figure out a plan to acquire the targets.''

''Mister Blanchard,'' Whittings asked, ''Aren't you curious about what we do here?''

''You do what I do for as long as I have,'' Blanchard said, ''You learn discretion.''

''Wise,'' Whittings said, ''But I will tell you anyway.''

Whittings cleared his throat. And he went on.

''You see, this is ground zero for the White Revolution. We have a lot of friends out there, spreading the word about the war on the White Man. Here, we don't deal in rhetoric. We deal in action. With the support of many true American patriots, we will fight back against our enemies. We started with the niggers next door. It was glorious. Like the days of old. Nocturnal raids, burning crosses, hangings. And our masterpiece. The church. And see, nobody showed up. No uploaded footage on youtube. Not one word in the media.''

Whittings took a glass of water. He continued.

''See, the ragheads may be a pack of camel fucking sand nigger savages, but they got one thing right: creating cells instead of one huge army. So if this experiment works, there will be more cells like this one across the country. Our counterstrike against the barbarians at our gate will be cunning and merciless. We will create incidents here and there as a catalyst, so our fellow Whites wake up and realize the crisis at hand. There will be some chaos. Some destruction and a lot of collateral damage. But from the ashes will rise a new, stronger and better version of our great nation. Cleaner. Purer. Unstoppable.''

Blanchard didn't say a word.

''What do you think of that?'' Whittings asked.

''That's…quite a plan. How come…''

''I told you all this? I admitted to killing hundreds of niggers and chasing away the rest without any consequence. What do you think will I do to anyone that stands in my way?''

He gave Blanchard a friendly slap on the shoulder and a warm smile.

Blanchard remained silent.

''Now, then, about that problem…''


	4. Chapter 4

**Later that day**

**Black SUV convoy on the way to the abandoned garage**

There was still day light when Blanchard's crew decided to take the garage.

Blanchard was in the middle vehicle. There were six SUVs in all.

Blanchard was talking to his right hand man, a bald-headed clean shaven White man, Steve Page. There were two more men in the back.

''He told you all that stuff?'' Page said.

''Yeah. You know, he's just like those dictators we worked with overseas. And those ethnic cleansing guys we trained a few years back. He's a narcissistic maniac. He fuckin' _wanted_ to tell me. And he's right about something. Cops can't beat on a guy without it becoming a viral video. These guys killed hundreds. I haven't heard shit about that anywhere.''

''Jesus. That takes some heavy connections to get away with that shit,'' Page said.

''You saw who his brother was. And after establishing the strategy, he showed me more shit. Like the new uniforms.''

''Uniforms?''

''Yeah. Half inspired by the Klan, half inspired by military combat wear. White fatigues and flak jackets with a logo on the shoulder. A knight holding a flaming sword.''

''Fuck, man.''

''Like I said, just like those nutjob third world country tyrants.''

''Yeah. Why are we working for these guys?''

''The pay is good. This is just another gig. I'm not really sure 'no' was an option either.''

''We don't usually work in the US.''

''This place barely feels like the US. That guy, Whittings…He gave me the fucking creeps.''

''He wants us to radio him when we're done?''

''Yeah.''

''Do we know the target?''

''Nope. A couple guys. Skilled. Whittings wants to take no chances.''

''No shit. There's sixteen of us. Isn't that overkill? ''

''Can't hurt to be careful. We haven't scoped the place out in person.

''We didn't scope the place out,'' Page said, ''But we have the next best thing.''

''Yeah,'' Blanchard said. He grabbed a walkie-talkie and said: ''It's for the birds.''

From one of the SUVs, several birds flew out. A closer look would tell the story. They were drones. Specially designed to deceive an untrained eye. Designed to look like ducks. Complete with a prerecorded sound effect.

Page was smiling. Even Blanchard afforded himself a smile. The guys were like kids with new toys. Their tech guy was pretty happy with himself. Page was looking at a tablet while Blanchard was driving. There were four drones circling the area. They flew over the garage. The hidden cameras were zooming in.

''No discernable activity,'' Page said, ''No one on the roof. Windows are boarded up. Can't see inside.''

''Wish we had thermal vision on those or infrared or even x-rays or some shit,'' Blanchard said.

''Next model,'' Page said, ''The team is working on it.''

Blanchard answered with a grunt.

''Dan,'' Page said, ''It's just a couple lucky assholes. They did all right in a bar fight, doesn't mean that we're dealing with Terminators or whatever. We can handle it.''

''Complacency can get you killed, Steve,'' Blanchard said, '' Check out the surrounding woods. Maybe the pricks have set up an ambush.''

''Jesus, man, you're getting paranoid in your old age,'' Page said.

''You're not paranoid enough,'' Blanchard said, ''You see what kind of people we're working for? That Black guy just fucking walks in a bar that might as well be Grand Klan Central. Unarmed. He smacks around a bunch of hillbillies and then, some old White dude joins the fun. Helping a Black guy. Out here. And they handed us their address. Now, they're either fucking king shit killers, both of them, or they're completely out of their fucking minds. I'm not taking any chances with these fuckers.''

Page sighed and said: ''Yes, sir.''

''Don't fucking sigh, man, that shit pisses me off,'' Blanchard said.

''Will you relax? You should have kept smoking. Stress will kill you quicker than cancer ever could. I sent the drones higher and further and look. Nothing for hundreds of yards.''

Blanchard didn't relax, but he did say: ''Bring the drones back. Let's do it.''

''Attaboy,'' Page said. He took Blanchard's walkie-talkie and said, ''We're going in. Surround the building.''

The vehicles were positioned as ordered. Two in front, facing the road, two covering the back.

Blanchard said: ''Keep yourselves twenty feet away."

Page was puzzled and asked: ''Why?''

Blanchard didn't answer. Page scoffed and said:

''Are you thinking landmines? For Christ's sakes, really?''

''Page…''

Page opened the door and stepped out.

''Can we just kill these assholes, earn our pay and get the fuck of this bumfuck town? Leave that Whittings maniac to his racial crusade or whatever bullshit!''

''Page, don't underestimate-''

''Look, we fuckin' have sixteen guys! We're taking this seriously enough. Let's get this done.''

Page went to the back of his SUV and pulled several cases. Soon, all of the men were armed with HK MP5 submachine guns with sound suppressors. Eight in front. Eight in the back. They were all facing the building, hiding behind their vehicles.

''Ok, Stevie,'' Blanchard told page, ''You're right. Let's get these fuckers, cash our fee and then, we fuck off to Tahiti away from this Klan shit.''

''Now, you're talkin','' Page said.

And Page's head exploded.

Then, Blanchard's upper body disappeared in a crimson past, like Page's head.

The other six men changed sides, to put the SUVs between the unseen shooter and themselves.

Three rounds punched holes through engine blocks and doors and found more heads and chest and smashing them like ripe tomatoes.

The last three sat on the ground, backs against the trucks. And their fate was identical to the others. Destroyed torsos and craniums. Barely recognizable as the once healthy and willing men from seconds earlier.

On the other side, the eight mercs were still behind their vehicles.

''What now?'' One of them said.

''We have a rifle of our own,'' Another said.

''I'll position myself on the garage roof,'' Yet another said, ''Try to nail that cocksucker.''

''Lucky brawlers, my ass,'' A fifth man said.

''Come on, we have to-''

One of the SUVs exploded, sending four members of the hit squad up and away, burning and dismembered by that blast and flying debris from the truck.

The four standing several feet next to them were knocked down by the blast.

''What the fuck-''One said.

''Sounded like a forty mil from-''

And a long burst of automatic fire tore through their chests. A very, very long burst.

And then, there was silence.

**Luther Jones stepped out of the woods, holding his smoking M4-M203 combo fitted with a 90 round drum magazine. **

Seconds later, Frank Castle drove in from the opposite direction in his van. He'd been positioned a mile away on top of it, in the woods, underneath a tarp and some leaves and branches. With a sound suppressed.50 BMG Barret sniper rifle. He stepped out of the black van. He was in full working clothes. Black combat fatigues, black body armor with a large white skull on it. Jones was dressed similarly, without the skull. He'd been positioned several hundred yards away. As soon as the Punisher started shooting, he jogged to join the position. He also had a laser microphone in a big in his left hand. He was closer to the road and well hidden. They needed to be sure that the men were enemies, not cops or soldiers manipulated by the Knights. When they heard the conversation in their ear pieces, Castle and Jones knew that they could take down what turned out be hired killers.

Castle hard heard the burst. The kid had emptied the drum. Castle said nothing about that. He understood.

''These guys were serious,'' Jones said.

''Not serious enough,'' Castle said.

Frank Castle and Luther Jones were standing among the corpses and smoking SUV carcasses.

One of members of the Strike Team was wearing a functioning walkie-talkie. The two men were hearing:

''Nest to Falcon, Nest to Falcon, come in. Mission status?''

Castle looked at Jones. Jones nodded. Castle picked up the talkie.

''Mission is FUBAR,'' Castle said.

There was a short silence. Then:

''Am I speaking to the White man? I don't talk to niggers.''

Castle said nothing.

''So? Who am I speaking with?''

''Frank Castle.''

Another short silence. And then, the voice said.

''My apologies, Mister Castle. Should I call you Punisher? Sorry, I've never spoken to a famous vigilante before. Michael Whittings. Pleasure to speak to you, sir.''

''Fuck you.''

''Oh, come now, Mister Castle, why so hostile?''

''You haven't seen me being hostile yet.''

''Well, I don't see why we couldn't be friends.''

Castle paused. ''Friends?''

''Of course! I mean, you're White, a decorated veteran. You have fought for the cause I believe in.''

Castle said nothing. The man went on:

''You've been doing what you do, for, what, forty-five years? How many niggers, spics and ragheads have you…Punished in your war, Mister Castle? From my standpoint, you've been doing great work.''

Castle said nothing. The other man continued:

''See, between us civilized human beings, you know. About them. The subhumans. How they corrupt the very fiber of American life. And you understand loss, of course. Many of my Knights Of Purity have lost as well. When factories close up and companies fire thousands of people and move overseas, when banks do foreclosures on hard working Americans while the same banks get bailed out by the government, when immigrants and take jobs for half pay, leaving nothing for decent folk. Those men who, like you, were hard workers, veterans, and ultimately, betrayed by the system. They need a sanctuary against corrupt government run in the shadows by greedy kikes. They need to strike back at the system who let them down. Those men are just like you, Mister Castle. Alone. Angry. Looking for a cause. And-''

''Shut the fuck up.''

Silence. Possibly stunned. ''What?''

''Shut. The Fuck. Up.''

''Listen to me, you nigger loving traitor, I'm gonna-''

''We're gonna kill you and your Knights. And I already have a cause: Punishing bastards like you. People who murder helpless people. And your bullshit ideology won't save you.''

''Fine, then, Mister Castle. Why don't you and your pet monkey come over? We can even hang you both together, side by side. Or burn you just like we did those other niggers.''

And the man told Castle the address of what seemed to be a farmhouse. And then, he said.

''You'll burn in Hell, Castle, for joining their kind, you-''

Castle tossed the walkie on the ground and stomped it. He looked at Jones. The younger man said nothing. His eyes had lost nothing of their ice cold focus. The kid was angry, but he was keeping it together.

''No turning back, kid,'' Castle said, ''Unless you walk away now.''

Jones looked at Castle. He said nothing. Castle nodded and said nothing. They both went inside the van.

''I get it,'' Jones said.

Castle said nothing. Jones went on.

''The cost you mentioned. You meant turning into you. You don't want that for…Zeke's son.''

Castle didn't answer. Luther continued.

''Zeke was murdered. And my mom, Loretta. My Uncle Marcus. Along with most of the people I know. The rest moved away. I will become what I need to become to make the Knights pay. And I think I know how.''

Jones exposed his ideas. Castle nodded. They made some preparations. And then, they were headed to the next target.

The Knights Of Purity headquarters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Whittings' Farmhouse**

**Knights Of Purity HQ**

All of the men were wearing the new uniforms. White fatigues with the logo and pointed hoods. Not as a high as the traditional hood, but still there, a reminder.

The base was getting ready.

The Punisher was coming with his pet coon.

Whittings in the security room. He was standing up, behind three men sitting, watching closed circuit screens covering the entire compound.

There were only two of them, but Whittings knew about The Punisher's reputation. He's killed many men over a long career.

Whittings remembered a saying: ''Fear the old man practicing a profession where men die young.''

Whittings only feared God, but that saying was sound advice. It was a mistake to dismiss Frank Castle because he was alone. It was a deadlier mistake to under estimate him. He did manage to find Crystal Falls and possibly learn about the Knights. And that subhuman with him wanted revenge. If that boy was skilled too, well, the Knights would have to be careful.

But they were only two men facing a hundred.

A dozen pick-ups carrying four-man teams. Covering each cardinal point. Four-man teams in four towers overlooking the compound. The rest posted in and around the farmhouse.

''I see something coming in, sir!'' One of the Knights watching the monitors said.

''A vehicle coming in fast, sir! Looks like a van,'' He heard on the radio from the watchtower guards.

''Well, well, Mister Castle,'' Whittings said, ''Looks like you accepted the invitation. Your funeral.''

''Sir,'' a watchtower sentry was saying, ''Something is happening on the van's roof.''

Whittings could see it as well. It looked like something was coming out of the roof. And Whittings recognized it.

''Oh, shit! Take them out!'' Whittings said.

But it was too late.

**Inside the van**

The Punisher was driving. He knew, when he decided to come to this place, that it was possible he'd be facing an army. He didn't know if he could win, but he needed a fighting chance.

So, he brought a heavily modified van. It was armored. Had a more powerful engine.

And, with the help of some tech-savvy allies, he had two modified M202 FLASH four barreled rocket launchers installed with aiming sensors. They could deploy out of the roof. A tablet on the dashboard allowed for targeting. He aimed for the four vehicles guarding the North Entrance. The men were already opening up. The bullets from their M-16s were harmlessly bouncing off the van's armor.

The Punisher fired four rockets. The four vehicles exploded thunderously, sending fire, debris and dismembered White Supremacists in the air.

Luther Jones was in the back of the van.

They exchanged a nod.

It was time for total war.

**Inside the compound **

Whittings was barking orders.

''Stop them, goddamnit, stop them!''

What the fuck was this? It was like something from a fuckin' kid's comic book! Changing a van into an armored battle vehicle?

Three more vehicles were closing in on the attacking van. They also received rockets. Three more vehicles blasted into burning scrap metal.

Over twenty casualties already.

Grounded troops were being run over by the assailants. Another pick-up truck was destroyed. The rocket launchers went back under the roof.

''For God's sakes, stop that fucking van!''

The van skidded to a stop. Jeeps and troops were closing on it. From both sides

''Why did they stop?'' Whittings said.

Then he saw it.

''No, no, fall back!''

**Inside the Battle Van**

A small section of the van's left side panel opened up.

And Luther Jones fired the 7,62 mm General Electric M134 minigun. It was set on a tripod with nylon cords fastening it to four welded hooks on the side of the van. For more stability.

Luther Jones unleased the 100 round per second power of the electric machine. He was wearing Oakley sunglasses and ear protection.

Over 300 rounds tore up one of the pick-up trucks. The truck and its occupants seemed devoured by angry bees tearing up flesh and metal like nothing.

Another truck suffered the same fate. Limbs were sliced off, skulls exploded, torsos were severed from legs, metal was perforated and pristine white fatigues quickly became red and black, with gore and ash.

From the other side, The Punisher was using a MK-19 40 mm grenade launcher. He was firing frags and high explosives.

Trucks and people exploded into more flaming hulks and troops, like ripe tomatoes.

It was a cacophony. The shell casings, the gunfire, the explosions, the screams outside, enemy rounds bouncing off the van like a mad hailstorm.

And soon, nothing. Silence. Dozens and dozens of bodies. Wrecked trucks everywhere. The towers were destroyed and smoking.

After a few seconds, Jones said: ''That's a good start.''

Castle nodded. They stepped out of the van.

The Punisher carried an M60 with a 200 round box mag. Luther Jones had a SAW in 5,56, with a 200 round box mag. They brought some hand grenades with them. And other gear in a duffel bag.

The Punisher had a M1911 on his right hip, in a holster.

Jones had a .45 ACP Glock 21.

On Jones' body armor, a white skull was painted on.

Both men were jogging towards the farmhouse.

**Inside the compound**

Whittings and his three men sat there. Staring at the monitors. In shock. In just a few minutes, they'd watched almost a hundred men die.

All these years, training these men, getting them weapons and uniforms. Gone.

Two men. Not even two men, one man and a nigger.

The Knights were falling apart. Literally.

He was startled when he heard machine gun fire. Screams. They were inside.

The Punisher was coming for him. And he was bringing that black piece of shit here.

Here.

It was inconceivable just two days before. Explosions. Screams. More gunfire.

Death was coming.

''Sir?'' One of the last remaining Knights was saying, ''What will we-''

The door to the surveillance room was knocked open. And Whittings saw them.

The Punisher, looking every bit as fearsome as his reputation let on.

And his tar baby friend. Dressed identically.

The Punisher spoke first.

''Michael Whittings,'' he said.

Whittings stood up, facing his enemy.

''It's me, Castle.''

''Sir!'' A Knight said.

''It's all right, son. It's only a battle. The war is still-''

Castle raised an odd looking pistol and fired in Whittings neck. Whittings immediately felt dizzy. Castle came to collect him and took him out of the room.

He heard machine gun fire behind him as that fuckin' shit skin savage was murdering his brave Knights. He then slipped in and out of consciousness after that. They went towards the conference room and he was sat down on a chair.


	6. Chapter 6

**Inside the conference room, Frank's POV**

Luther Jones faced Whittings.

The Punisher was observing everything. Silently.

''What are you lookin' at, boy?'' Whitting said to Jones.

Jones didn't answer.

''I asked you a question, you stupid porch monkey! Answer me, nigger!''

Jones said nothing.

''What are you, boy, some kind of fuckin' retard?''

Jones stared coldly at Whittings.

''Last time… a nigger looked …at me like that, he burned. You…you wait and see, boy, when I-''

''You're wasting your breath,'' Jones said, walking towards Whittings.

''What…the fuck are you-''

''Your words can't hurt me,'' Jones said, ''Nothing you can do can hurt me. Nothing you can say can hurt me. You have killed everyone I care about. My friends. My family. You destroyed my home. You can't do anything worse to me. ''

The Punisher was standing. Not moving. Not speaking.

Jones was walking towards Whittings. The leader of the Knights was on a chair, seemingly unable to move. He looked drunk and was slurring his words. Jones was approaching Whittings with rope. Despite having trouble with speaking and moving, Whittings' eyes were still full of pure hate.

''Get…get…away from me, you fuckin'…you fuckin'… baboon, don't you fuckin' touch me!''

''Maybe now,'' Jones said, ''You have an idea of what loss feels like. We killed your entire army. You're on your own, now."

While speaking, Jones was tying Whittings' hands behind his back. And his ankles to the chair's legs. Whittings was trying to struggle.

''You…fucking take your filthy nigger…hands off…off me…I'll burn…you…I'll…''

''I thought about how I could hurt you,'' Jones said, ''Beat you to death. Cut you in pieces. Burn you alive. Break every bone in your body. Rip out your eyes. All sorts of ways I could make you suffer and break you. But physical pain is not enough for you. I'm going to tear down everything you planned. Everything you built. Your projects will be reduced to _nothing_. _You_ will be _nothing_. And you're going to help me. And _you_ will not be able to _stop_ yourself from helping _me_. Mister Castle shot with a dart full of truth serum.''

Jones stood back. Looked down at Whittings.

Frank Castle was now holding a cell phone. And filming. No network here, but he could still take pictures.

Jones went on.

''You murdered hundreds of people with impunity. I want to know how. ''

The truth serum in Whittings' veins did its job. And he talked. And talked. Jones made him repeat everything twice more.

When Whittings' finished, Jones looked at Castle. Castle put his hand in a duffel bag. And brought Jones a gallon of fuel.

Whittings' eyes went wide. Despite the drugs in his veins, he struggled, weakly.

''What…what are you…doing,'' he said.

''I made up my mind,'' Jones said, ''About how I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna burn you alive.''

Luther Jones poured the gasoline on Whittings.

''No…Don't,'' Whittings protested, ''Please…I gave you…I gave you everything.''

When the gallon was empty, Jones set it down and pulled out an emergency flare.

''You have it all wrong,'' Jones said, ''You didn't give me everything. You took everything. And this is how you took it.''

Castle was filming again. Whittings' eyes were even wider when the flare was lit. He started screaming in absolute terror. Jones listened to his fear for a while. And then, he tossed the flare.

The screams of sheer agony were even worse than before. Castle and Jones watched. When the screams finally ended, Jones said:

''Now, you gave me everything.''

Jones and Castle exchanged a look. No words were necessary.

And they moved on with the rest of their plan. And they needed to act fast.

**The next day, early morning**

**Charlotte**

**Abandoned warehouse**

Gabriel Whittings woke up when the ice cold water hit his face. He was startled and went into a coughing fit. When he stopped:

''What the hell!'' he said

He was tied to a chair in a deserted, broken down place. A warehouse, maybe. He couldn't understand. He was in his office early to negotiate a deal to expand his business. He was one of the wealthiest men in the world. How did he end up in this situation. Then, a voice said:

''Gabriel Whittings.''

His vision cleared up and he saw two silhouettes in front of him. Two big, tall men. When he focused his eyes, he realized who one of them was. White, dressed in combat clothes and a white skull painted on his body armor. The Punisher.

The other one was a nigger. He was even taller and bigger. And he was dressed identically. Including a white skull on his body armor. Whittings was trying to keep calm. He was a business man.

''What's going on?'' Whittings said, ''What do you want from me?''

The nigger had a tablet. He put in front of Whittings' face.

It was his younger brother, Michael. In the same predicament he was. And he talked. And the more he talked, the more his heart sank. He tried to keep his composure. Even as he watched his brother burn alive.

He then felt a small prick in his arm. He realized that the Punisher had injected him with something. He started feeling dizzy. But he didn't pass out. It was like there was a fog.

''What…was…''

''Truth serum,'' the nigger said.

The Punisher stood on the side with a cell phone and started filming.

''Ready, Frank?'' Jones asked.

''Yeah,'' Castle said.

''You're…gonna let this goddamn…ape-faced chimp tell you what to do?'' Whittings said.

Castle said nothing.

''What…what kind of White man…'' Whittings started.

''We had that from your brother,'' Jones said, ''Let's skip that and get the heart of the matter.''

''You…You killed my brother…''Whittings said, ''And you let him do it, Castle, you fuckin' Judas!''

Castle didn't even respond. Whittings yelled:

''Answer me! You fuckin'-''

And was rewarded with a slap. From the nigger.

''Now _you_ are gonna be a _good boy_ and answer all of our questions,'' the nigger said.

And like his brother before him, he did. He talked. And he couldn't stop himself. Then the nigger hit him again. And then, nothing.

**Castle stopped filming. He looked at Jones.**

''This is worse than we thought,'' Jones said.

''We're in over our heads,'' Castle said.

There was a silence. They looked at Whittings. Knocked out.

''What now?'' Jones said.

Castle said nothing for a second. Then:

''I know a guy.''


	7. Chapter 7

**One day later**

**Hell's Kitchen, NYC**

**Josie's Bar**

**Evening**

On the television, a Latina Anchorwoman in her 30s was telling the news:

''Gabriel Whittings, CEO of Whittings' Retail, the largest chain of retail stores in the country, has turned himself in to the FBI earlier today. This seems to be in the aftermath of the video confession of his brother, Michael Whittings, who has admitted to being the head of White Supremacist organization, the Knights Of Purity. Michael Whittings had also admitted to being responsible for the death of hundreds of African-Americans in the small town of Crystal Falls in North Carolina. He also confessed to being the one that ordered the church arson in a local church in Crystal Falls which killed over 100 people. The arson had also been caught on film and was in a video that accompanied his confession. Michael Whittings had also said that several powerful people, among which his own brother, Gabriel, were responsible the covering up of years of violent attacks on the African-American community. All of that video had been first released by Canadian and European media outlets before getting the attention of American authorities. A combined Task Force made of FBI, ATF and Homeland Security is still investigating.''

She hesitated. Her face, for less than a split second, registered shock, and she went on.

''Breaking news…It would seem, yes, it would seem that more people have turned themselves in to the FBI apparently in relation to this story…We have…yes…we have Sharad Kimpoor in Washington DC in front of FBI headquarters…Sharad, what can you tell us?''

A well dressed brown skinned man in his 30s appeared on screen:

''Alejandra, it would seem that at least six members of Congress and two special White House advisors have turned themselves in, apparently in relation to what is now called the Crystal Falls White Supremacist Conspiracy. The FBI is not commenting for the moment but have told us that they will hold a press release later today.''

''Thank you, Sharad…and we have reports of several more reports of people turning themselves in a few cities, still in connection to the Crystal Falls story. More CEOs and members of government…''

The sound was muted on the large screen TV. Three men were at the bar in the otherwise empty establishment. Frank Castle and Luther Jones were drinking soda. The man behind the bar was drinking scotch. The scotch drinking man pulled out a cigar, a cigar cutting instrument, sliced off a tip, put the cigar in his mouth and lit it with a zippo. He took several long drags and had a satisfied smile. The cigar smoking man, a White man, with grey and brown hair, a hard face and an eye-patch, turned towards the other two.

''That's the thing about owning a bar,'' the man said, ''I can fuckin' smoke if I want to. Since there are no customers here.''

He took another long drag. Blew out of the smoke.

''Gotta hand it to you guys,'' the cigar smoking man, ''You did some good fucking work.''

''So did you, Fury,'' Castle said.

Nick Fury was a legend in the intelligence community. A high-ranking member of a shadowy organization, a man that has been around for many decades in the military and in Intelligence later.

''Releasing the video to media outside of the US was a good idea,'' Fury said.

''The whole thing was Luther's idea,'' Castle said.

''I was hoping that whoever was behind this whole thing didn't have power outside of the US,'' Jones said, ''I was hoping that the scandal would at least expose the bastards. Had no idea how deep it went.''

Fury had a bitter chuckle: ''Neither did we. Jesus Fuckin' Christ, this is fucking ugly.''

''How did you get this done,'' Castle asked.

''After you sent me the intel, I got together a team and we acted fast,'' Fury said, ''And not sanctioned. I had a few volunteers. I told them it was off the books. I told them that they would be threatening powerful people and they could end up in deep shit. The guys and gals I got together didn't care. They said that these fuckers needed to pay. I handled Gabriel Whittings myself.''

''How did you get these people to turn themselves in?'' Jones asked.

''I can't reveal all of my secrets,'' Fury said, ''Let's just say that we found tons of evidence. Money transfers, even blueprints for more White Supremacist bunkers and specific operations. Violent attacks that would have been created to stir shit and cause more tension. Cause a race war and all sorts of shit. These…these are some evil fucks, guys. They almost got away with it. We were fuckin' lucky. All it took was breaking damn near every fucking law in the book.''

Fury looked at Jones. And said:

''Kid, nothing I say will make this better for you. You lost everything. But your folks didn't die for nothing. Castle's NSA buddy saw the satellite pics before they were deleted and that helped this whole train started. That and the fact that you had balls of steel, confronting these bastards. But I'm sorry. More than you know.''

''Why?'' Jones said.

Fury poured himself another scotch. Downed it. He did that twice more.

''I'm over 100 years old. I don't fuckin' know why I can't just grow old and die like a regular person, but here it is. That's a lot of time to think about shit you did. And shit you didn't do. I knew about the Klan. Growin' up in New York, in the Kitchen, I never gave a fuck. Then came the Army. World War Two. I lost this eye and a shit ton of buddies fighting Nazis. Overseas. Then, I got caught up in the Cold War. I knew about the Tuskegee experiments, injecting Black men with syphilis. I knew that there were assholes as bad as the Nazis right here. Not as powerful, but still murdering people. Couldn't be bothered. Always some…foreign threat that needed to be stopped. That became my entire life. And those Ku Klux fucks never disappeared. These days, you turn on your TV and there's a group of knuckle dragging, mouth breathing, inbred fucks marching down streets with Nazi flags and Tiki torches. Using Nazi salutes. Makes me wonder why the fuck I lost an eye and dozens of friends. I saw the camps. Do these dumb fucks even know…''

Fury paused. Took a long drag on his cigar. And went on.

''When this thing came up, I decided I wasn't gonna sit on my ass. These sacks of shit weren't just gonna be exposed. Not that exposing them wasn't important. As nasty as it is, the people have to know. But not enough. They were gonna pay. Fucking jail time. No deals. Seized assets. We even found the hidden money. Those motherfuckers…they are fucking terrorists. They need to go down. They're never seein' the light of day ever again. Death is too easy for these assholes. I will pull every string possible to make sure that they spend long, miserable fucking lives in maximum security prisons, mixed with general population.''

Jones nodded.

There was a silence.

''What's next for you, Luther?'' Fury asked.

''I don't know,'' Jones said, ''No job. No family. I have no idea.''

''I could set you up with some contractors,'' Fury said, ''A talented guy like you would find a job in a split second.''

''I think I need time,'' Jones said, ''To figure out who I am. What I wanna do.''

''Sure, kid,'' Fury said, pulling out a business card, ''Need anything. Call.''

''Thank you, sir,'' Jones said.

''Nah, kid, thank you,'' Fury said, ''This country owes you big fuckin' time.''

Fury shook hands with Jones. Then Jones shook hands with Castle. No words. And then, Jones left.

There was a silence. Fury looked at Castle.

''Frank, if I didn't know better, I'd say you looked…sad.''

''He's a good kid. He's one of the best I've ever seen on the field…''

''And you don't want him to become…us. To live a long life of misery and death.''

''Yeah.''

''No guarantees, Frank. We'll see. If he chooses a path like ours, it will be his cross to bear.''

''Yeah.''

There was a silence. Castle got up.

''Goin' back to work?'' Fury said.

''Still a lot to do here, in the city,'' Castle said.

Fury smiled: ''Be careful out there, Frank.''

Castle didn't answer and he turned around. And left. Back into the New York Night.

Back to the war.

**THE END**


End file.
